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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26560531">Rust and Blood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertizontally/pseuds/Vertizontally'>Vertizontally</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dark Souls II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Psychopaths In Love, Reincarnation, Repressed Memories, Unhealthy Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:02:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,488</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26560531</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertizontally/pseuds/Vertizontally</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A new world, the same routine.</p>
<p>Maybe they'll figure it out one day.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Creighton the Wanderer/Mild-Mannered Pate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I want you to understand that I have 800 hours in Dark Souls 2 and never knew this ship was a thing until six hours ago. I wrote this instead of sleeping because these two murder husbands now live rent free in my head.</p>
<p>  <a href="https://twitter.com/Vertizontally">Come say hi on my Twitter!</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And where the fuck do you think we are now?”</p>
<p><br/><br/>Pate takes a moment to examine the world around them. The sun appears to be setting, the orange glow like fire across the vast sea in front of them. The air smells like ash and burned things, but not cloying like a nearby fire. Something far more subtle and pervasive like the sky itself is alight.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He hums, glancing himself over, finding something new. His clothes, his armor, his <em> skin </em>, it all had a faint golden glow emanating from cracks along the surface. Like a tree struck by lighting and burning from the inside out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Surely things have been like this for awhile- why is it all strikingly new now? Pate thinks back until he can find the last of his recent memory. He knows there had to be a before and yet…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He can only remember as far back as Creighton asking him about this place.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And such a strange thing, to know a man’s name- know his face despite a bismuth mask blocking his sight- and not know how they met. There’s an ache in his bones, like an old wound. There’s a ring on his finger, under his thick gloves and somehow he knows there’s two. Sharp and rusted and unfriendly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Hurt me and I’ll hurt you. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oi, your helmet making you deaf or did your brain finally collapse under that thick skull of yours? I asked where the fuck we are.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A small smile on Pate’s lips at the anger and arrogance. There’s a want -no a <em> need- </em>in him somewhere to push the brash bastard over the side of the cliff just to find out what happens when he returns-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ah yes. Death is so fickle in this place. Never sticks. No matter how many times they try.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He can feel a familiar pull- an urge down the path through the canyon.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“There’s a bonfire nearby. We’ll get our answers there.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Creighton doesn’t question him, just grunts in annoyance and bends to pick up his axe.</p>
<p><br/><br/>“Then let’s get a fucking move on.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pate grips his spear and they follow the trail down, down, down. Into this sad place of burning decay.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>===</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’re holed up in a bookshop. Or maybe a parlor. It doesn’t matter what this place used to be- there’s books molded from damp on the shelves and warped floors. Blood and rain mix under them as they huddle from the cold.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Creighton is too tense to rest- the beast they’ve narrowly escaped still howling outside. He sits in his bloodied, torn coat, breathing fast and sharp.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pate can feel the ache of claws in his arm and shoulder. The vile scent of <strike> <em> undead, cursed, unkindled, </em> </strike> <b> <em>hunter’s</em> </b> blood fills the space between their bodies where he’s being propped up on a tense shoulder. Its ichor carrying the stench of death long denied.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Again and again and again. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bleeding will stop soon. He cannot die from it. It can only hurt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their weapons lay next to them, and they have few bloodvials left to risk meeting the creature again. Or the people that have turned into beasts wandering the streets. Weak-willed and hungry for something they cannot have.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s a sense that this is new, and yet not. Injury, violence, blood- that was all comfortably familiar. He knows what Creighton’s disgusting, fetid blood tastes like and craves it all the same. But he cannot remember where they met or why they travel like this. Helping and harming each other in equal measure just because there is no place else left for those like them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>These worlds were cruel. They just learned how to be cruel back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But the closeness is new. Pate knows he cannot trust Creighton just as much as Creighton cannot trust him. Or maybe they can- but in that way that you can trust a killer to think like one and act like one. They both revel in what they are, never desiring change.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Until now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This life is exhausting. Pate cannot remember the last time he slept. Maybe he never has.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Creighton is warm in a wet kind of way. The rain and the blood of monsters and monstrous men adhering them together. He grips like a man who fears- and Pate knows that is a weakness he should discourage. They’ve never feared. This was all a game to them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Scrimmage.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Pate can no longer remember the score, nor does he care enough to find out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s two rings on their fingers. Old and rusted, once-sharp edges worn down with age.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’ll figure out how to best these strange creatures tomorrow. Dying over and over again until they’ve learned their lessons or gotten lucky.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For now, Pate takes a deep breath and rests.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>===</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The library is quiet and the air is still.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Creighton ponders his options on the shelf in front of him. Horror-fantasy stories span the width of the bookcase and there’s far too many to choose from.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It frustrates him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wonders why he even does this in the first place, but he knows the answer. Stories made him feel the things his therapist wanted him to. The things he’s never been able to feel from the people around him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He should be wearing his scarf, but he finds he cares less about his appearance these days. His face is fucked from the things he’s seen and done as a child. There’s no point in pretending the damage isn’t there.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His therapist says that it’s progress. Creighton calls it bullshit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He remembers everything. The beatings and torture from a man who had no other joys in life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Like him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He still dreams of his hands around his father’s neck, his mother laying dead in the next room where the bastard offed her. He’s barely fourteen but the adrenaline and anger gives him the edge he needs to fight back.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s thrown into a sliding door, can’t see through the blood dripping into his eyes. But he fights.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And when the rage consumes him, he knocks the fucker over and wraps his hands around his throat and <em> squeezes. </em></p>
<p><br/><br/>That thrill, the moment of seeing life leave his fathers eyes. The joy and relief.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was the greatest thing he’d ever felt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And he <em>craves</em> it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In and out of behavioral centers and doctors and therapists. People wanting to shove sedatives down his throat and fix him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Children are afraid of him, dogs don’t like him. Something in his eyes, he figures. Hollow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eyes of a predator among prey.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And apparently his salvation relies on which book he picks this week.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Something catches his eye. A battered and abused tome that looks far older than it ought to. The leather was once black, but the dye has faded and been rubbed away to resemble something like rusted iron. The pages almost look like they’ve been covered in blood.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> The Ring of Thorns </em>, the tattered title boasts.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then there’s someone else in the aisle with him, not taking him by surprise per se- he’s always aware of his surroundings- but he feels discomfort from how easily he accepts this man’s presence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He has a sedate smile on his lips, and that same hollowness in his eyes that Creighton knows in his own. Empty, soulless, hungry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s not met someone like himself before, he thinks. He sure can’t pull off subtlety like this bastard can. He <em> almost </em> looks human if not for the sense of unease about him. Creighton has always been easy to see and spot- avoided like a rabid dog.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But not Pate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No, Pate can fool anyone. Even him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> How does he know this man's name? How can he already crave the high of being with him? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Creighton shivers as Pate’s voice washes over him, warm and deep unlike the brash bark of his own.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I recommend it- I have a copy of my own at home. Fair warning though- you might find yourself trapped in the pages.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Creighton laughs. “‘s that so?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pate grins a little wider and then reaches for him, hungry and possessive. The kiss isn’t kind or gentle. Maybe a mockery of one, as if they could ever truly be lovers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That wasn’t what any of this was about.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t love that brought them together over and over again. It was need and desire- a deep yawning abyss that demanded attention. They’d never try to fix each other or expect more than what can be given. They were selfish creatures, and there was a respect there for that truth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Creighton can feel a sharp pain on his lip and taste blood in his mouth, urging a rumble from his chest as Pate laps as much of it up as he can.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hunger. <em>Starvation.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Relief.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s been called many things in his life. Monster. Victim. Murderer. Psychopath. Lost. Irredeemable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Cursed, Undead, Unkindled, Unclean… </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But here?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>He’s just Pate’s.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Art by Cheety</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Updated to include this wonderful art that Cheety drew for me!</p>
<p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/cheety_art/status/1330646475773255681?s=19">Please go show them love on Twitter!</a>
</p>
<p>Seriously, this is truly a great gift to have for this fic. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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